


DÉJÀ VU.

by skeletonpants



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied Widowtracer, a lot of needless angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonpants/pseuds/skeletonpants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You shake your head and shrug playfully. And then you smile, because it's always what you've done best. "Just an old friend," you finally respond, because that's all she ever was, "you wouldn't know her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	DÉJÀ VU.

She won't look into your eyes, for some reason.

Nearly a foot before you, she stands almost motionless. It's like she isn't breathing. Like her chest isn't even rising and falling anymore. Even the simplest of tasks, one necessary for life and one humans have done for thousands of years, is something beyond her grasp. You ponder if she's holding it. Her breath. Is this no more than a tactic she uses to steady her aim? God, you hope that's it.

Your hand is still gently resting on her shoulder, which is bound in some shiny sleek fabric that you cannot even fathom putting on your own skin. It's cold and tight and...it's cold. She's cold. She is the embodiment of cold, standing nearly a foot before you with her unmoving alien eyes, softly glowing golden in the dim light, on the horizon line. 

Her name escapes your lips. She doesn't seem to hear it, so you get a little closer. Over time, both of your hands have found their way onto both of her shoulders, turning her towards you.

You gaze into those piercing eyes of hers. She was always pretty, you think, everything about her was pretty, but this is a different kind of pretty. Pretty scary, if you're being honest.

When you, speak, your voice is quiet. "Amélie?" You say to her. It's a question, but it doesn't sound like one. Whether she's Amélie or not isn't a question, just like whether she hears you or not isn't one either. Your hands slip down her arms to rest on her wrists. They're cold, unsurprisingly, because all of her is cold. Cold is the absence of warmth. The woman in front of you is the absence of many things. She's a husk, essentially, and you haven't got a single clue why.

She didn't do anything to deserve this. Neither did he. Nor you. Not anyone. Nobody did anything to bring about any of this, and yet everything always happens in a blur so fast that you don't even know what hit you. 

You're a blur, Lena Oxton, and you just want to figure things out.

All of her is cold, and all of you is warm. You let yourself get closer because heat has a tendency to encompass its surroundings. You don't want to encompass her, though; you just want to hold her. God, you just want to hold her. You want a friendly embrace like the two of you shared so long ago when she'd sometimes say 'good luck' and you'd always reply 'I won't need it' and give her a wink that you hoped would melt her heart nearly half as much as she's melted yours by simply existing.

But this world doesn't allow for friendly embraces anymore. This world is black and white. Love or hate. It's... no. It's not like that, you tell yourself. It's only gonna be like that if I let it be that way. This is always when you smile a toothy smile and set your hands on your hips because you're a beacon of hope and positivity. A beacon of hope and positivity is something everyone needs, right?

Everyone. Without a doubt.

To the woman in front of you with pale purple skin, you give a smile, because that's what you're best at. You're better at love than hate. You always have been. Grinning, you give her thin wrists a little squeeze as you take steps backwards and try to pull her with you. "C'mon, Amélie," you cheer, turning your head to the side in a quick motion to show that you're ready to get the hell out of wherever you are and that you intend on taking her with you. 

You can practically hear the crickets.

"Amélie?"

Nothing.

And then all at once, something. Her hands tug away from yours, and finally she allows her gaze to fall to yours. Brown and gold collide but the sparks you used to feel don't fly and the butterflies that used to flutter are all dead in your stomach. "Who is Amélie?" She asks quite bitterly, like the name leaves a nasty taste on her tongue. 

You shake your head and shrug playfully. And then you smile, because it's always what you've done best. "Just an old friend," you finally respond, because that's all she ever was, "you wouldn't know her."

You won't look into her eyes, for some reason, so you find yourself staring at your feet, nearly toe to toe wth her's. Once more, a sudden jolt divides the two of you. You're blue, a bright blue, blinking in and out of existence. She's blue, a dark violet, existing as no more than a shell.

Breathe in, Lena Oxton, because you're only a blur, and you don't have to figure this out now. Breathe out, Lena Oxton, because your skewed clock has led you far from her; so far that you don't even think about how a once bleeding heart now lies still inside of an icy cage. You don't have to think about it ever again.

But you will, won't you?


End file.
